4.30.2004

Final Exam, Extra Credit Question: What is one thing you learned or gained in this class?A: “… The last thing I took out of this class is that professors are not all old and males. Some are actually pretty hot and stressful like the rest of society. Thank you Prof.P.S. and I did mean the hot part. Wink, wink. ”

Clearly, this student wanted to add points to his grade with flattery. It gave me a welcome chuckle as I slaved over the 120 mostly sub-par exams. I grade without looking at names. After scoring this one, I had to flip the cover and see whose it was. Jorge. He’s the cute one. The one I came the closest to having a crush on, but which I duly nipped in the bud, I thought. Now the semester had ended. I still had all my students’ email addresses. I couldn’t help thinking, what if I emailed him? Is this just flattery or an invitation for me to ask him out? I got so far as to come up with an email. Something flirty yet noncommittal that he could choose to respond to or not, so my dignity could remain intact. Could it?

I decided once that teacher-student dating could be ethical if done after the student has finished the course and if the student is not majoring in that subject and would not be that teacher’s student again. My conditions were now met, probably, maybe, as far as I could reasonably be expected to know.

I noticed him the first class. He had a bad-boy geekiness to him that I find almost irresistible. Except that he seemed so young, somewhere between 18-21. That’s gross!--way too young. He talked to me after that class, wanted to know how long I had been teaching. Then he said, “See, it’s always the young ones who are the best teachers.” I laughed. Whatever! I know better than to believe that line (but it’s still nice to hear).

I spent the semester squelching my attraction for him. But he always participated, had great questions, did well on exams, and he came to see me in my office for help with his paper, twice. He didn’t make it easy for me not to notice him. One class, I sent everyone off to work on their papers while I stayed in the room to answer questions. Jorge stayed behind and wanted to talk about the reading. The girl who followed him around like a puppy also stayed along with another guy I found attractive. Jorge wanted to try teaching to see if he got it right. So I sat in the front row with the others. He did a good job. The four of us chatted and discussed the material intermittently. I really wanted to go home. I really wanted them to stop asking me questions so I could go work on my over-due paper. Then I noticed his tattoo. He has a serpent slithering up his neck and behind his ear. Very, very sexy. I couldn’t help it, it caused a visceral reaction. Afterwards, I found I had to avert my eyes away from it whenever he talked to me.

Analytical people don’t have as many relationships as non-analytical people. Those cursed with highly analytical natures don’t get involved without doing a cost-benefit analysis, assessing the risks and potential for success. If the risk to potential ratio is too high, then we avoid it. This does not make for romantic 'how did you meet?' stories: "Well, after analyzing his personality, ambitions, emotional functioning, domestic habits, body odor, etc. I then compared these to my own. I found the resulting equation gave me sufficient reason to ask him out." "Yes. And on our anniversary, we always celebrate the fact that our finely tuned critical thinking skills brought us together by doing proofs of natural deduction together, by candlelight." Since I am one of these unlucky, unromantic persons, I too work the equation. However, I used to date just for fun. I went out with non-members knowing we had a guaranteed break-up. Being older, I now know that dating is in fact, not only not fun, but one of the most humiliating and torturous activities known to man. Rationally, it’s not worth pursuing someone with whom I have no potential.

Jorge fits into the waste of time category. With the age difference and the religion and no sex thing, our potential hits the red zone. If I didn’t believe in my religion and the covenants I have made, then I could date Jorge for fun. He’d probably be a great boy-toy I could have lots of sex with. Since that's not an option, I haven’t sent Jorge the email. If I weren’t so committed, would I have emailed? No doubt, in like two seconds flat. And no way I'd be blogging right now either.

Good thing I don’t have him this term. Imagine having a student for four months who had written you a note like the one above. A student I couldn’t help being attracted to, and who would probably grow bolder as I grew weaker. If he’s in my 300-level class next year, I can see the disaster already.... He walks in the first day, a year older. My jaw hits the floor as I try to compose myself and drop all my papers instead. My usual first-class ‘I’m a nazi professor don’t even think about pissing me off’ routine would totally not happen. Drooling professors aren’t scary. What if he sat in the front row this time? That would ruin my mojo. I’d probably stutter, get distracted and lose my place. Then I’d get annoyed at myself and angry. . . It just can’t happen! Sting, I hope I never sing your song.

"Young teacher,....she wants him so badly, knows what she wants to be, inside her there's longing, this girl's an open-page. . .Sometimes it's not so easy to be the teacher's pet. Temptation, frustration...Don't stand so, don't stand so, Please don't stand so close to me. .." --The Police.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.

4.23.2004

....your bad date stories! With the 'Got Bad Dates?' box on the side-bar, I wanted people to leave their vignettes of bad dates as comments. That hasn't happened. Someone (MPS) complained that my stories weren't really bad and said he had better bad dates. Bring it on, brother.Email me your tales and the best of the worst get posted. You don't have to be mormon to send one in, but it has to be a date without sex. (Most bad dates are anyway, I assume?)

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.

Moroni Plays Ska has posted a taxonomy of Mormons, from "The Five Kinds of Mormons" written by Robert Kirby. Look for his post dated April 21st. The 5 types are: Liberal, Genuine, Conservative, Orthodox, and Nazi. It's a very accurate and amusing description of each mormon sub-species.

We also learn that there are only 11 genuine Mormons out of 11 million in the whole world and as Moroni himself says, ".0001% Ain't Bad". It looks like I'm going to hell since I was raised on diet coke and rated R movies. Oh well, my conscience is clear as long as I never vote republican.

4.21.2004

Everyone has had a crush on one of their professors or teachers. You can't really help it sometimes. You go to class a few times a week and this brilliant person is up front performing, doing what they do best. That's always attractive. That's why I think musicians and actors are so attractive. There is something magical about watching a person get absorbed in their art or passion. Especially when that person does it well, or better, when they excel. Something about their passion absorbs the observers, and we get to come into their world to experience the beauty in their minds, hearts, souls. And then we can walk away having gained something or, occaisionally it may even change us. Maybe we learn how to look at the mundane in such a way that we can see it for the miracle it really is.

The process breeds intimacy on the part of the viewer. The performer has bled her passions for you, so you too can feel the excitement and wonder that she feels. Members of the audience naturally form emotional attachments to the performers whose blood resonates more deeply with their own. Anyone who acts as a catalyst for another person's phenomenal change gets associated with that phenomal event. The musician who can take his listener to the 'white peaks of the sublime' to experience the rapture in some divine musical work, often gets associated with the rapture felt by that listener. We fall in love with writers whose books touch us emotionally, the actors who express something in our own inner lives, the rock singer who comforts our personal turmoil....

Unless it's just lust because they are totally hot.

Teachers are performers. Many professors create character personas that they don just for their classes. I believe academics are artists. They have to have the same indefatiguable passion to survive and succeed. I think this is how the student crush happens.

Unless, of course, your professor is sex on a stick yumilicious. Having been a student for many years, I have experienced the student crush in varying degrees. So, it is interesting to now be on the other side of the lecturn. The intimacy that develops is completely one-sided. The student feels close to the teacher and feels like they know the teacher, but all I know about my students are their names. To me they are almost strangers. It's a little bit creepy having people who are practically strangers act like they have a crush on you.

With my few semesters of teaching I already have some stories of students acting goofy. Yesterday I wore my hair down for the time first time this year and also wore spring clothes for the first time (much less conservative). And one boy actually came up to me after class and offered to help me grade the exams for my next section. I turned him down politely and then he almost started begging to let me help him. This kid is a repeat-lingerer who often apologizes for asking too many questions. But this was extreme to offer to help me do my work! It would mean him hanging out with me in my office for the hour between my classes.

Then, in my second class of the day, another student stayed after to ask me why I looked so stressed and tired and started trying to console me. He told me how I need to take care of myself and should relax, I don't have to work this hard, etc. He had that, "Oh baby, you don't have to feel like that, you shouldn't do that to yourself, let me make you feel better" kind of sound to what he was saying. You ladies know what I'm talking about. You men might not, unless you do that too. It's a total pick-up game, the 'let me take care of you sweetheart' routine. He even had that concerned, sensitive look on his face. If I wasn't so tired and stressed, I might've laughed out loud at him.

But last semester was the interesting one. Next post: "Don't stand so close to me"

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.

4.12.2004

I just couldn't pass this up. Every Mormon living single or who formerly lived single, understands about the 'Singles Dance': an institution instituted to benefit the 'singles', to give us a romantic place to meet each other. Bless them for trying, but a church gym with some balloons taped to the wall and a folding table of chips and punch does not make for romance.

Singles Dance traditions differ in each stake. Back home, my stake hosted a dance the third Friday of each month. The Region hosted a dance on the first Friday of each month. I had to go to my stake's because I was YSA rep forever for my ward. The 5 active reps had to rotate dance chores, like cleaning up and dj-responsibility. Ah, the singles dance dj, usually some brave LDS music-geek or dj wannabe who doesn't mind doing it for free. Our stake was lucky because we had George who owned lots of cool equipment. The DJs at our dances got to use his laptop to program the songs. I haven't been to a church dance in years. But I remember in our YSA stake meetings, the issue of song-lyric-cleanliness came up once in awhile. They tried to make us have all songs pre-approved before the dance. That didn't work. But, today as I was surfing the bloggernacle I came across a post from Number1Nun. Sorry I don't know the HTML to give you a link straight to her post. It's the one starting with, "HOLLA" dated 4/08/04. She writes about her bishop, not only asking for a preview list of songs for the next singles dance, but actually suggesting that the DJ play "I am a Child of God".

Yes. You read that correctly. Check her blog and see for yourselves. Do they want us to stay single forever?? Isn't it bad enough that the People at a dance feel humiliated and nervous, that the music is terrible, that the sweet couple missionaries are chaperoning, that the lights are too bright, that you sometimes find yourself hiding from the creepy old dude or sweaty boy, or you find out the one interesting guy there is 19 and about to go on a mission, that you sometimes get to watch ex's macking on other people, or that sometimes no one of the opposite sex wants to dance with you and then it's even worse because you find them all repulsive?.....No! That's not enough.

Now, at Nun's dance they want her to play sweet, spiritual primary songs to get everyone in the mood. ? How do you dance to that? You couldn't even do the missionary shuffle [walk around in a circle slowly holding hands]. To what end does her bishop want this song played? Here are some of my guesses:

To remind everyone to leave some room for the holy ghost.

To remind them of their awkward childhood so they feel more confident and flirty.

It's a morale booster for those whose egos are getting abused, "It's ok no one wants to talk to you because you are a child of God."

So the couples making out in the parking lot will knock it off out of guilt.

To prevent the giggling girls from gossiping about each other, "Don't say that about her hair, she's a child of God too!"

To remind the RMs that it is their Godly duty to find a wife, so they better get to it!

What do you think her bishop is thinking? He has good intentions, what are they? Leave a comment. (Thanks Nicole!)

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city.

4.07.2004

My poor home teacher finally got dumped by the primary pianist after she strung him along for 2 months. She was pretty rotten about it too. After two months of her saying, "Let's be dating friends", cancelling on him a few hours before their plans, and insisting she didn't want something serious. Yet, she also confused him by taking him on a snow-boarding trip, doing Valentine's Day with him, calling him 'honey'/'sweetie' and phoning him everyday. Not serious? She gave him the keys to her car so he could move it for her! That's serious, sister. Last week he invited her over to do FHE at his place, which they did every week. She called him to say 'no' and broke it off. She told him they couldn't date because she, "doesn't see him as a provider". Ouch! And, "I want someone who can bring to the table what I can bring." (she must mean salary-wise, she pays 1200 a month for rent.) But she says it has nothing to do with money. Right. Girlfriend, if you want a suit from wall street, then you should leave the artists living in the ghetto alone. You give the rest of woman-kind a bad name. Honey, Can you see Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree? She only gave him one kiss that whole time. He said she's the coldest woman he's ever dated. He told me this because he got annoyed that Utah boy came here for 5 days and I let him give me a nasty cold. (I had fun though)

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of not having sex in the city.

4.01.2004

My HeroWe live on the second floor. Our front windows face the street with a ledge below that runs across the whole building. One night my kitten went out the window and disappeared. I freaked and went outside to find her. After calling her name, I finally heard her meow back. She poked her head over the ledge, saw me and cried then shrank back from sight. I didn’t know what to do. She was too scared to move. I stood on the sidewalk talking to her, trying to get her to go back inside.

Suddenly this guy came out of the building. He walked over and started chatting me up: tells me I’m cute, asks my name, etc. until I told him I was busy trying to get my cat. He asked where she was, I pointed to the ledge. He says, “You want me to go get it?” “What? Are you crazy? You’ll fall and break your neck, NO! Don’t do it.” “I’m going to get her.” He went and climbed the big dumpster in front of the church next door. Then he pulled himself from the dumpster onto the roof (1-story flat). A chain link fence with curled barbwire across the top blocks the alley between the buildings. Somehow that boy walked on top of the barbwire and reached up to the ledge. But he couldn’t pull himself up from there, so he had to climb up the bricks of the wall. He actually did it!—slowly. The boy was like Spiderman! He climbed up the corner of the building as I panicked and wondered what to do if he fell. When he got onto the ledge, he picked up kitty and took her to our window.

He came back and said, “I got your cat, now you have to go to dinner with me.” Saving my cat and pulling that spiderman move-- the boy deserved a date. "You're right." So then I actually looked at him. D**n! He was FINE! Big green eyes, pretty masculine face, perfectly proportioned, mocha-colored skin, and an adorable smile with dimples. He was actor fine. “Can I come up to see your cat? I love cats. And I need to get your phone number.” Mmmm-huh. “Yes.” Once inside we talked in my bedroom for awhile. Quite the charming guy, he told me about his acting/modeling career. Said he made 60K in a beer commercial that year…blah blah. Sure he did, that’s why he lives with 3 other guys in this building. He laid it on thicker than day-old grits! And it was late on a spring Saturday night, so when he offered to give me a foot massage, how could I say ‘no’? I gave him some lotion and he slowly worked each foot with both hands. He smiled and complimented me and gave me the looks with his sultry eyes. MMmmm, yea. I enjoyed that.

When he finished he wanted to massage my back. I didn’t say ‘no’. Kitty?-- What kitty? He began slowly kneading the small of my back. He spread his hands out towards my waist and lightly squeezed. Then his hand slipped under my shirt and he worked his way up my back. Mmmmm. We were sitting on my bed. He asked for more lotion. *Reality slap:Maybe this is a bad idea.* Alas, I pulled his hands away and told him to stop. He kept asking me to let him, blinking his big eyes with the lashes. Eventually he stopped amd I gave him my phone number. He said he’d call and take me out to dinner somewhere nice.

“Will you walk me back to my place?” “Sure,” Ok, sometimes I’m still that dumb. He gave me the tour. His small room had a bed that took up 8/10ths of the space. “My bed is brand new, come feel how soft it is.” So I sat down then quickly got up. “Nice bed,” um, "I have to go now, getting up early tomorrow." After some objections, he walked me to the elevator and gave me a kiss on the cheek with a hug. Then he said, “I don’t want this night to end.” *Gag!* But I went home smiling. He tried to get some of my stuff, and I still wanted to go out with him, at least once.

No one had taken me out in this city. I never went to nice restaurants or had any reason to dress up. The thought of a date pleased me. I imagined myself wearing a small black dress with sexy shoes, sitting in a restaurant that has real tablecloths and candles, looking across the table at a beautiful man. Imagined flirting and talking and being treated as if I'm special, being touched, noticed, seduced. It had been almost a year since my last date.

The Booty-callerSurprise! He didn’t call. We saw each other in the hall the next weekend around 2 am. He said, “Apt. 2D, right? I want to come see you.” He confused me, I shouted, “What? Sure.” Then went home to sleep. Saw him again during the week on my way to the store. He told me he came over that night and knocked on the door but no one answered. Whatever. Liar or not, he still hadn’t called me. The following weekend, same thing. Saw him and he said again that he wanted to come over. His classy character became more and more apparent. “No. It’s too late.” I had chucked this prospect into the dumpster he liked to climb.

But then... A few weeks later, about 3 am, the intercom phone rang [People use it to get buzzed in the front door.] I picked it up, “Hey! I lost your phone number but I remembered your apartment. That’s why I’m calling from the door. What are you doing?” “I am sleeping.” “Can I come up? I want to see you.” This infuriated me. Who did he think he was giving me a booty-call from the front door? I yelled, “No! It’s 3 a.m. what’s wrong with you?!” Then hung up. How could he think I was that easy? I had never been so insulted. Like I would just sleep with him because he climbed the side of a building for my cat and massaged my feet. He thought he could get in my pants without so much as taking me to dinner. And he lost my phone number? I’m surprised he remembered my name. Even if I were having sex, no way would I be that cheap. Just because he has a perfectly sculpted body and the eyes and dimples, he thinks he can get me into bed by calling me from the door intercom? Oh, no.

That was the last of SpideyMan. Strangely, he disappeared. Maybe he moved out. Or, maybe he got called back for more training at the 007 Hero Womanizer Academy. I did see Sean Connery coming out of the Plaza Hotel not too long after. Bond may have put an end to the boy for so shamefully failing them. Too bad.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetically hilarious exploits of me not having sex in the city. Leave a message and I'll call you back, CelibateCity@juno.com